The Longest Month

He returned home from a night out; fish and chips with a decadent dipping sauce of mayonnaise, malt vinegar, and some other spice that only the chef knew. A mid-week treat accompanied by stout beer and a side of whiskey, and the bustle of strangers with somewhere else to be. His dog was waiting, wagging his tail slowly, knowing that a long walk wasn't far away. The clock read 10:30.

He traded his jeans for snow pants to shield him from the recent deep-freeze temperatures and allow a lengthy romp with his dog in the freshly fallen snow. He zipped his coat and tied his boots, put on the mittens good for nothing other than warmth, and tipped unsteadily down toward his dog's nose. “You ready? You wanna go check out the lake?” His dog snorted in the affirmative, then reared back and lowered down in a long stretch and farted.

After a few warm days the temperature had fallen again, but his dog didn't give a shit. He loves the cold, and ran with his mouth open, low to the ground, scooping up snow like a mini steam shovel until he reached the end of the leash. As the two made their way to the lake, he began to unload his thoughts aloud. “February is the longest month.” he said. “I don't know what this horse shit is, going in like a lion or a lamb or what but February...is a bitch kitty.” The winds howl louder in February, and anyone who says wind chill isn't a real thing clearly has never spent a February night in this state. “The clock hands hardly move...did you notice that? 28 days of solitary confinement...might as well be a year.” Even now, leftover winds carried his voice away to nobody as they crossed the desolate street and approached the frozen over lake.

All the geese were long gone, the paddle boats and floating docks were lodged roughly along the beach house, the sign on the lifeguard's perch reads “CLOS D”. Pausing for a moment to take the air, he admired the moon with a slight smile, and teetered slightly heel to toe before dropping down for an impromptu wrestling match.

“Alright, alright now, hold still a minute.” His mittened hand fumbled with the collar's clasp. When finally freed, his dog ran out ahead on the snow covered ice as if fired from a canon, darting left then right every few yards to sample the snow on either side. During the long nights and short days of winter the dog spent most of the time folded up on his mat, this was his only chance to really stretch.

Mother Nature's schizophrenic mood swings the last few days had created an interesting slurry on the lake; 8 inches of ice, a few inches of thick slush, topped by an ultra-thin layer of ice, crisp like wax paper. A frozen crème brûlée that, if you didn't know any better, would make you think you were about to go through the ice...until you hit the solid stuff underneath.

He could just barely make out the shape of his dog, cutting this way then that, maybe 50 or 60 yards away. Frozen minnows and fish parts were a special treat, and he ate ice shavings around fishing holes like it was candy. “Let him go...” he thought. “He needs to run. He should run.”

He started to feel better out there on the wintry mixture, disconcerting as each step was. Then right in the middle of the lake, exactly center on all sides, he was confused and startled to find his left leg suddenly plunged into the lake. There was no time to scream, only “Oh no...” with a quiet gasp. Dozens of pictures flashed through his mind; ice cracking open, floundering for a solid edge, slowly sinking into the black, wondering who would take care of his dog.

It took a few seconds to realize that he wasn't going all the way through. He had somehow found an ice fishing hole from earlier in the day, one that hadn't quite frozen over enough to support his weight, camouflaged by slush ice and covered over by blowing snow. All of his weight was now pressing down on his collapsed right leg, and no leverage to stand up as the water quickly wicked up the lining of his snow pants. The cold bit into his calf and thigh and pierced all the way through before turning to a burn; immersed in ice water, on fire.

He leaned forward, arms outstretched, to brace himself and hoist the saturated leg when his face slammed into the slush. There was no support, and all too late he remembered that ice fishers up here don't drill just a single hole and sit by it on a bucket. No, they set up shelters. Light heaters. Drink spiked coffee. All after drilling hole after hole after hole with gas powered motors on a 12 inch auger. Another gasp drew water a degree away from freezing into his lungs, his sinuses flooded, three limbs through three different fishing holes. “I can't believe I'm about to drown in two inches of water...” he thought. There was no one around, no traffic on the nearby road, nobody knew he was there. One thing he did know, he knew he didn't want to die.

“Don't panic...” kept echoing in his head, but his body didn't listen. Splashing, clambering, fighting all the wrong angles with numbness quickly consuming each arm, seconds passing slower than February. Only by arching up on his forehead was he able to pull free and roll onto his back, the left leg still trapped. He let out a low moan, lower than the north wind, through a quickly freezing face mask. Suddenly, he felt pressure on his face, then warmth. A patting. Lapping. It was his dog, licking his face. Finally opening his eyes, he sputtered out a gurgling laugh.

“I owe you one.” he whispered.

Managing to sit up, the last task was figuring out the puzzle of finding the right angle to get his foot up through the ice. “Dammit,” he said, “I lost a mitten.”

The Gale of November

Past boarded up windows of boat houses
With hoarded up crumbs for the lone mouses

Avoiding the thugs with unleashed dogs
Anointing the rugs of unleafed logs

Where everlasting summer got up to go
Balanced against wind a day before the snow

At lakes edge where ducks and geese balk
Biding time to take the first ice walk

3 o'clock, asshole.

Genevieve was almost 15 when she got her first hearing aids. Something degenerative had been slowly turning down the volume in her head since grade school. Now in her late twenties she could hear almost nothing, and taught young kids, in varying degrees of hearing decay themselves, at a little academy in an upscale part of town.

People never seemed to notice her hearing aids, though she never really tried to hide them. They weren't small, like her dimples. They weren't disguised by her bobbed hair, that always seemed just dried. Most likely it was the disarming way she looked at people when they spoke; inconspicuously, intently, reading lips to pick up anything her ears didn't catch. With her cool blue eyes, most people didn't even notice she had ears, let alone devices.

It was the first day of class, complete with awkward hugs for the younger set whose parents had taken the morning off, and older kids exiting donated vans with their hands blurred in conversation. No dew on the grass thanks to the late summer heat, just bits of exposed dirt turning to dust as the kids bottlenecked at the door, the early morning sun already raising beads of sweat. Genevieve watched the children from behind starlet sunglasses at the end of the walk, nonchalantly checking email on her phone or refreshing the Missed Connections page on Craigslist. Maybe she caught someone's attention at the movies a few nights ago, or perhaps someone noticed how she sauntered slowly through the entire farmer's market yesterday, but bought nothing.

She looked up in time to catch a man consoling his son of about five or six. The kid couldn't decide if he wanted to fiddle with his aids or hold dad's hand, stalling before letting go that last time before walking into the building. Even though Genevieve was older when it happened, she remembered this day when she went through it. She put her phone in her pocket and made her way over to say hello. While she couldn’t hear much without her earpieces, Genevieve still had full use of her voice. She tended to speak a little louder than necessary, and sometimes talked over other people a little, when she didn't realize they were talking, but that was no different than 90% of the other people in the world.

“Hi…what’s your name?” she asked the little boy. He said nothing, just stood there looking at her, almost motionless, squinting in the sunlight with one hand on the hammer loop of his father's pants, the other gingerly futzing with one of his hearing aids. She waited, smiled, then shot out her hand and said “I’m Ms. Genevieve.”

“I’m sorry, this is Eli.” the father said. Evidently Eli had been on the edge of tears all morning, nerves and what-not, and he was having trouble getting used to his new hearing aids. She understood completely. He said this was a big transition for everyone in his family, but they were all doing their best. “I don’t think any of us got much sleep last night.”

“He’s in the right place, this is just the spot.” Genevieve knelt down eye-to-eye with Eli, wrapped her hands around his, and smiled. “Those things…they kind of suck, huh?” Eli nodded. “Let me show you something…” Genevieve took off her sunglasses, turned her head left and tucked her hair behind her right ear, then slowly turned her head right and tucked her hair behind the left, exposing both of her hearing aids to Eli. “See? I have them too. And you know what?” Eli shook his head. “Almost everybody here has them, or something like them. Soon you won’t even know they are there.” Genevieve booped his nose then stood up.

The father fell victim to the same set of blue eyes everyone else did, the tanned skin of her face only made them more obvious, and more obvious that they were looking right at him. Like most he immediately started avoiding eye contact. She said “You know, today is more about getting acquainted than anything else, you're welcome to come inside for a little while, if you have a few minutes.” She imagined striking up a witty conversation, giving a personalized tour of the school, and perhaps offering up her business card. As inappropriate as it might seem. The father looked down at Eli, Genevieve couldn’t see his lips, and said “How would that be, bud? You want us to stay for a little bit?” Eli immediately lit up and nodded quickly, almost like he'd just been asked if he wanted to blow off class and go to the zoo.

Genevieve asked if they had begun working on sign language with him, because that would probably be the most rigorous part of the first semester. “We have, yes. Well, we’ve just started.” He looked down at Eli again, and again Genevieve couldn’t see his lips. “Haven't we?” She said it would be a good idea to start integrating both speech and sign around the house, to start making it a habit.

For the first time since she approached, Eli spoke. “Dad, when are you going to pick me up?” The father held up three fingers, the last three, with his thumb and forefinger touching tips. The 'OK' sign, but upside down. “Three o'clock, ok?” the father said. “Three o'clock, ok?” Genevieve couldn't help but laugh, and she stifled her chuckle by clapping a hand over her mouth, but her shoulders blew her cover.

The father stared, then half smiled. “What?”. Genevieve took his hand and held it up, shaped it into the 'OK' sign. “This...is 'ok'.” she said. She took his elbow in her other hand, and turned his arm down, forearm facing up. She said that when you hold the 'OK' sign this way, it takes on a much different meaning. She whispered “You're signing 'asshole'.”

With eyes wide he finally held Genevieve's gaze, except there were no words. The background slowed to a stop like a record player suddenly unplugged. He broke the silence by pitching back his head, erupting in laughter. Funny thing about laughter; even if you can't hear it, it's still contagious. She let her hand fall from her face and smiled, her shoulders still giving away her efforts to stifle her amusement at the situation. The father turned red and doubled over, laughing silently now, then finally caught his breath sounding like an accordion in reverse. It completely drowned out Genevieve's snorting.

She looked up to see a woman approaching in a trot, carrying an Iron Man backpack. Genevieve's laughter stalled when she said “Got your bag, Eli.” The father could do nothing but motion for her to come closer, turning his hand counter-clockwise toward him. “What...what's so funny?”

“Ms. Genevieve, this is my wife.” Genevieve said hello and put out her hand, but the invitation for a shake was not accepted. The wife in fact recoiled slightly and offered only a quick hello through a cautious grin. The father held up his hand with his fingers fanned out. “This...this is 'ok'.” He wiped tears away from his eyes, then rotated his arm down, forearm up, fingers still fanned. “This...is 'asshole'.” What he thought was a very reassuring combination of sign and speech inadvertently turned into his first sign language swear. The wife was not amused. The cautious grin turned to one much more forced and rooted in disbelief. “The first day of school and you're teaching him profanity in sign language?”

“Well...no, I mean it was a mistake I made, she pointed it out. She corrected me. Thank you, for that.” He paused. She glowered. “Oh c'mon, don't you think it's funny how one little thing changed the tone of the whole situation?” The wife exhaled a little cough. “Hysterical”, then took Eli by the arm and made for the door after shooting Genevieve a big, fake smile.

The father followed after, then stopped and turned. “Thank you. I needed that.” He thumbed toward his wife, mouthed 'She's ok', with his hand up and fingers fanned, then turned and left to catch up.

Genevieve waved and smiled, then said softly “No, more of an asshole.”

Lockup

Another day inside gray walls
Might as well be a cell
Still draggin' around the cannonballs
Do-it-yourself private jail

I lost the key but there's one other
Around the neck of a would-be lover

There ain't no gang or county line
But I still swing and wail
The midday sun bakes my mind
Deep in thirst beyond the pale

I start to drink and then falter
Poison has overcome the water

Take the lash at the whipping post
Then involuntary solitary
Pay for the crimes self imposed
Each misdemeanor and felony

Nothing harder than doing hard time
Just pray for pardon or reprieve sublime

Free to go I can leave anytime
Can't savor good behavior
Turned myself in for no reason or rhyme
An empty bottle for a savior

Lights out and there's a fire in my bed
Another day gone with no verdict read

*Music to follow

Galvanized and Bulletproof

He's galvanized and bulletproof

Except maybe at the seams

Cut himself on a devil's tooth

And bled out all his dreams

He stole a wishbone from the warden

then used it for a shank

Went out and fired up his Norton,

Rode off with a lit rag in the tank

He's invincible, near invisible

Maybe under a voodoo hex

Unpredictable, fights bare knuckle

Walks one shadow to the next

He saves women in distress

And maidens locked in towers

He can beat Death at chess

With his divine powers

He's clairvoyant, a prophet

Contacts beings on other planes

Plays blues on Gabriel's trumpet

And broke loose Samson's chains

He flies all night on his rounds

wading through nightmares in the dark

Two steps ahead of the hellhounds

with bites much worse than the bark

He's a cloud splitter, shape shifter

All the elements at his comply

Thunderstorms under his bowler

You can tell his mood by the sky

*Music to follow

Just After 3:15

Musta been about 11 o'clock with a

little yellah moon lightin up the block

that I asked that girl up for a beer or three.

Next thing you know it's a quarter of one and we're

in the back yard shootin' some guns and she says

"hey cowboy, roll one of your smokes for me."

Suddenly it's a quarter of two and we

finished off the last of the brew and junebugs

stared at the porch light on the screen.

I could say I got lost in her eyes

my mind was found near her waist and thighs

that was...just after 3:15.

Round about quarter of five when the

sun just started splittin' the sky, she said

"I think I just stayed the night."

We can continue this grand little opry, I said

"Let me just get started on the coffee. The bacon.

Home fries. Eggs over-easy alright?"

*Music to follow

The Driver, Pt. II

“Like I said.” Lou turned and made like he had busy work to do leaving Boone to cover the conversation. “But the driver isn't in the story.”

I tried another swig and answered in the affirmative mid-wince. Jose was still fending off his hiccups. “You don't know about the driver...unless he doesn't...do his job...” Jose threw up in his mouth a little.

“I don't know whether to be flattered or not, Jose.”

Boone for some reason loves to watch people vomit. He started rubbing Jose's shoulders, telling him to just let it out, like your mom used to. Lou said something sarcastic thinly veiled as a joke and that he'd be right back with some more god-damned rags.

“He just drank too fast, that's all.” Boone finally stopped the rubdown and let the poor bastard make his way to the bathroom. After the door closed Boone turned and started tapping his Newport on the bar. “Ain't no way in hell I'm goin' in there with him.”

Lou arrived with more rags and a can of sawdust. Can you believe that? A coffee can of sawdust. Haven't seen that since I threw up in the cafeteria in third grade. Turkey gravy over mashed potatoes, so it was a Thursday. He got to the other side of the bar and saw nothing. No Jose. No vomit. “He didn't yak?” Boone pointed to the bathroom. “Ah shit. I'd rather he done it out here. Now I gotta do the whole toilet.” Lou sat and leaned against the bar and slowly crossed his arms, staring at the bathroom door. For the first time, we were all on the same side of the bar. “He only had two beers. Grainbelt, but still.”

Boone asked about the driver again just as the juke went on random.

“See the thing is...” I had no idea where to start.

Over the over the years, those rutted out paths that olive oil cart has to take have become common, and alpenglow has lost its luster. The olive oil eaters have no idea about everything that goes in those precious vessels. If they did, plenty would balk, a handful would be even more grateful, the lion's share would buy Bertoli if it was on sale. All this is pondered perched at the point of this parade, on wood wear-worn wide as the wagon, pining for pardon and carrying a torch for someone he hasn't met. Thinking about how maybe after this next delivery, he might take the cart in another direction. Just to see...ignoring that he knows those horses are going to head straight back to the barn.

“The thing is the driver is just pleased as shit to have a job in this economy. Am I right, or am I right?”

They both agreed and mumbled something motivated by their own individual politics.

“People tell stories everyday over dinner. I tell stories to sit at the table. I can convince you that bullshit is fact, and fact, bullshit. The fact of the matter is...you'll never really be sure. You don't know me outside this bar, and I doubt you'd ever swing by my place for beer and a burger some night to find out whether I'm full of shit or not.”

Boone stopped tapping his Newport. Lou stared at the bathroom door over folded arms. Jose was quiet. We were all quiet.

“I'd come drink your beer. I'm free next Tuesday.” Boone said finally.

Lou said “I like hamburgers. Big fan.”

“You have a bar to run. Boone, you've got kids.”

Lou said that if Boone was going to my place on a Tuesday night, he might as well go too. He would rather sit on a deck with a burger than sit by himself in a dimly lit bar. “I haven't closed early in ages. It'll be good, blow the stink off me.”

I didn't know what to say. It happens from time to time. Usually when the time is inopportune, as it is now. There was no way to take back my left-handed invitation. So. Next Tuesday night Lou and Boone are coming to my place for beer and burgers. Jose has yet to RSVP.

The Driver

I stepped into Governor's from the pouring rain, near closing. Lou and Boone were both there keeping some noob entertained. This was our first rain storm of spring, only one week earlier it was thundersnow. Even still there was something comforting about the shower, pissing down as it was, probably the fact that you don't have to shovel water. When spring springs, it springs hard here. This year it seemed spring's springs were sprung, and that it might not spring at all. That all changed literally overnight, suddenly there were tulips pushing 3 or 4 inches above the soil, trees budding spontaneously, and folks acting like convicts whose cell doors had been mistakenly left open. Case in point, earlier in the day I was flashed by a woman on the back of a Harley, and my beloved lake trail was overrun by...people.

"There he is." Boone said as I shook my coat and saddled up. "Been wonderin' about you, where the hell you been at?"

Lou started to pour my pint but I stopped him just in time to ask for a bourbon Sidecar.

"I ain't got any of them martini glasses." he said with a cautionary air.

"You guys...your grammar is awful. On the rocks is fine, Lou."

Boone introduced me to the new guy, Jose. "He's from Mexico. But he speaks English pretty good." Jose said nothing, just gave me a salute and smiled wide. "He works for the Mexican Consulate."

"Diplomat?"

"Security." Boone said.

"I thought you said he speaks English?"

Jose hiccuped mid sentence, "Where do...you work?" Lou and Boone both stopped and waited.

It dawned on me that neither of them had ever asked what I do for a living...nor had I ever asked them (Lou's was obvious), so I paused for effect. "Did you know it takes three pounds of olives to make one cup of olive oil?"

All three just stared, so I took this as a sign that I should continue.

"Imagine you're standing on a hilltop overlooking a large olive grove. All around you is nothing but row after row of the most meticulously groomed olive trees in the Mediterranean. This grove has been maintained by the same family for generations. They watch after these trees for signs of disease and insects. Every bug is squashed between thumbnails, no chemicals. If a tree needs water, they bring it by hand. One bucket at a time. Some of these trees are over a hundred years old, the trunks have grown wide and thick, the roots reach out for yards under the ground and intermingle with those of the trees next to it. This has been their livelihood for so long, none of them know how to do anything else. They consequently...make some of the most succulent olive oil in the region."

Lou set my drink down in front of me. In a margarita glass. I took a sip and flapped my tongue quickly in the air. "Is it alright?" he asked.

It was awful.

"Oh yeah, just right. It'll smooth out after a few sips. Where was I? Oh yeah...the olives have to be watched closely, because the harvest window is very short. Picked too early it makes the oil taste bitter; too late and it turns out overly sweet. The moment has to be just right, and it has to happen in one day. They walk through and strike the base of the trunk with ax handles, the ready olives fall to the ground. This way all the fruit gets back to the press unbruised.”

Once the nerves in my throat burned off, the drink was palatable.

"The olives are pressed in an old cast iron contraption, the wheels are turned by hand. The juice goes into a series of centrifuges, those wheels also turned by hand. All the fragments cling to the walls, lured by physics. Over and over it is sent through until clear, pure olive oil comes out the spigot on the other side.  Then it gets interesting."

Lou said “Oh good.”

“The trip to town is treacherous. They've got this team of massive horses pulling a rickety old wooden cart through rutted valley trails, over windswept passes, through fields of wild flowers, down into town where people are waiting for that oil. One false move on the ridge line and that entire season's work will be lost. Without a steady hand, every bottle would break going too fast down the other side. Poor timing with the whip going uphill might cause the team to not make it up at all. Any of these things might mean financial ruin, and leave the people in town very, very upset. No oil to toss with their pasta. No oil to mop with their bread. No oil at all.”

Lou looked at his watch.

“So...yeah.” I said flatly.

After several seconds Lou broke the silence. “You're a bullshit artist.”

I leveled my finger at him and said “No...I drive the cart.”

Summer Swan Song

Full bellied barreling down 31, the ring's the thing

keep repeating over and over, wound tighter'n a spring.

Tires hum on asphalt, windows down, late night air

jostling by dashboard light, errant strands of hair.

Knees pointed this way, a little skin shown

eyes front on the highway, look down turn to stone.

And those fingers lithe and long, lord they're right there

close enough along the neck to feel each transparent hair.

Engine slows down, signal clicks, once into the next zip code

hoping to find the lift bridge down, get this thing off the road.

Diamonds scattered on black sackcloth, orange half moon

summer bacchanalia down below, autumn's coming soon.

Walking out to the edge, and the leash pulling farther

wagering between bonfire smoke and perfume on the collar.

The Aural Tradition

My first memory of the old man's face was the same as my last; an out take from an old Polaroid, taken from a distance. Over exposed in the August Kentucky sun, late afternoon. He was caught a few steps away from the outhouse, mid-stride with a raised hand and a wide toothless grin. Same yellow button up shirt, same patchy scruff with chaw spiddle.

He moved slow, but looked pretty good considering the years of swinging a scythe in someone else's wheat fields, of days in the rail yards, of holding up his fists to back up his big mouth.

“How do you like that pretty good beer?”

“It's pretty good.” I said. “But the glass has...there's chunks of something stuck on the bottom.”

He said “That's the best cold water could do.”

The chair let out a rusty squeak as he leaned back and arranged his legs into his bullshitting posture. We didn't say anything for a few minutes, the drone of dog-day cicadas interrupted only by his occasional sips. Not just the slurping, but the gasped “ahh” that followed each.

Soon the slurping beer and swallows were the only sound I could focus on. Slyly staring from the corner of my eye, the exhale of satisfaction became more comical. Finally I had to laugh out loud. “Sounds like you think it's pretty good too.”

“Well, that's whatcha get when you go without teeth.” He checked the pot warming by the fire, whistled a quick high note from the heat, and dropped the cast iron lid back in place. “About another twenny, I figure.”

He said getting his teeth knocked out goes back to when he hopped a freight train to a carnival a couple counties over. They paid out twenty-five dollars to anyone who could stay upright in the ring, for five minutes, with their strong man. On the ride out, his mind played back every fight he'd ever been in. Like the land owner in a dispute over a day's wage, the two heavies he'd poked with a pocket knife when they tried to dangle him out a second story window, all the way back to the school yard bully that deserved everything he got. “Despite the way the sunlight looked, washing over the fields Id be working in the next morning, I had a knot in my stomach and no one to talk to about it.”

He got up and lifted the lid again, this time using his shirt cuff. He dug out a couple big scoops of thick soup into a cracked bowl, made by his father in some small town pottery, and handed it to me. It no sooner hit my hands than I was jumping to find a cool spot on the side. Turns out the cool spot was also sticky.

“It's gonna be hot.” he said as he scooped out some for himself into a matching bowl.

“There's...there's still some stuff on the bowl, did you wash these first?”

“Yeah.” He said, sitting down again, “that's just the best cold water could do.”


Anyway, he said the strong man beat him up pretty bad. He ended up spitting out a few teeth in the ring, probably swallowed the others. He took a big bite of soup and started gumming a hot potato, cooling it through his words. “Big son-of-a-bitch. I just had to stay outta the way of his haymakers, wait till he give out, but he still hit me plenty. I'm sure he was looking out through one eye for a few days after, but damn...I thought he was gonna kill me. Don't know if anyone woulda stopped him or not.”

With two broken ribs he managed to get on a train back home, thanks to a hand from a few guys already on. The lurching freight car's rocking motion as it snaked through the hills would normally put him to sleep, but with busted ribs it was now keeping him awake. Only after the engine picked up speed in the flats did he finally fall asleep. When he woke up, come to find out he'd missed his jump and there was no sign of the two that helped him on. Twenty-five dollars missing from his pocket.

I had a hard time finding words. “What did you do?”

The answer came almost like a punchline. “I went home and took another ass beating from the old lady, that's what!”

That was the only part that really scared him; going home to explain to his wife. The train, the fight, losing the money he'd gotten beat up for. “It sounded like a good idea, and we could sure have used the money. But I never told her how I felt like such a fool, after the way it ended up. Tried to be a hero, ended up looking reckless.”

He'd tear the Reaper's nipples off if he ever dared show up for him, but he always pointed to his wife as the tough one between the two.

“I'm tired, that's it for tonight. Just leave your bowl and your glass there on the ground.”

“You sure? I can bring them up, I'd like to do something to help.”

He shook his head no, then turned and yelled “Cold Water! Get here!”

Out from under the side of the porch tripped the dirtiest, floppiest, sag skinniest, Redbone you ever laid eyes on. He panted as he trotted over, but you'd swear it was a smile. He got right to work, just lapping almost every last bit of soup from the bowls. Cold Water was able to get almost all the pickle jars clean of beer, all but the bottom.

“Nothin' cleaner than a hound's tooth.” he said.

Babylon

After more than a year of my occasional drop-ins and ending-ups at Me Olde Watering Hole, after months of listening to so many stories between Lou and Boone, it's to the point you don't know which parts are real and which are bullshit. Way past the point where it even matters, but just shy of what you really hope is true.

Boone had control of the music. Steely Dan, courtesy of the new mp3 juke hanging on the wall four feet above a permanent dust ring outlining where the old disc job used to be. He had downloaded their entire catalog and wouldn't leave it alone. Boone ordered another round in between the lines of a half-hearted break-up with some sweet young thing and an aging man's bachanalia in TJ. Lou joined us for a change, lightly gripping a shorty as he leaned his hip against the bar. Come to think of it, I don't know if I've ever seen him idle like this.

“I hate that damn thing” he said into the rim of his glass. “Now I gotta redo the whole damn floor. Ain't that a kick in the ass?” 

Boone pulled a James Brown maneuver to climb onto his stool and started tapping a Newport on the bar. “I played all of Gaucho. On random."

Boone suddenly found himself ducking Lou's dish rag. “You know I hate this shit, why'd you go an do that? Can't understand a word.”

While the two went back and forth about the complexities of art and the every day slob's ability to understand it, I faded into the woodwork. Faded to Babylon. Highway 89. 89 minutes with nothing to do but drive, swaddled in a valley like the ones you see sofa-sized at starving artist sales. Scorching my scalp through the sunroof. Listening to the CD she had made. Put a few days and a few thousand miles between me and the inevitable, hoping for the clarity that comes once in a great while. Suddenly I could hear her in the music, us in the lyrics. That music. One last plea that might be wallered in while away. She didn't have to talk.

“Dontcha think?” Boone said, then waited a few seconds for my response. “Hey, Major Tom. C'mon back.”

I snapped back to and got the rundown on the conversation that I'd missed. Boone's point was that just because you don't understand something doesn't mean it isn't any good. Lou thought that the minute you have to explain it, you've failed.

“This is the first cultured conversation we've had in here and you're miles away, c'mon now. Spill it.”

I felt my face go red.

“I was just reminded...I was just thinking about a friend of mine that almost died.”

Pause for effect.

“He was on a bike, hauling ass down this trail somewhere...really shouldn't have been out there alone. He was the last one out and trying to outrun some nasty storm clouds. He's so damn scared, no idea what's ahead and the black is bearin' down on him. Shit, he was just trying to hang on. He's duckin' shit, bobbin' and weavin'. He went over stuff that would've crippled others. The only sound was his own blood rushing by in his ears. Jarring bones and crunched joints.”

“The moment of clarity, right. Listen, we've heard this one.” said Boone.

But that wasn't the moment.

“Imagine the point when you suddenly realize exactly...what it is you want. In that moment, as the Larkspur whizzed by...as the sweat dripped down his face, he thought he knew exactly what he wanted.”

I leaned back, struck a cocky pose on the stool. Pause for effect.



"But he's not payin' attention, see? Suddenly he finds himself looking past the tips of his shoes as he dangles over the edge of the damn trail. Hair pin turn outta nowhere. Had to be...at least 200 feet down. Not a sheer cliff face you understand, but close. Eh, maybe the fall wouldn't have killed him. Maybe just break his legs or neck. Mangled to hell, but he'd live.”

Boone pointed at me and inhaled, but I interrupted before he could identify the moment.

“As he dangled...there was no picture show, no life flashing before his eyes kind of thing. In fact, he said out loud “so...this is how.” He couldn't say how the wreck happened...and he couldn't explain how he clambered back up. His brain redacted all that shit. So he stood there and got his breath for a minute or two...then started walking, just as he heard the first few raindrops hit his helmet. He took the helmet off and threw it in the bushes.”

Boone raised his eyebrows, I shook my head.

“When he crawled in bed...so damn sore, reaching down to pull up the sheet took a lot of effort. It hurt to breath in. Anyway, just as he hit the pillow and that sheet settled on him...he knew exactly what it was that he wanted. Not at all what he expected either.”

This pause for effect was too long. Lou broke the silence with a stern “What?”

“He was separated from what he wanted by a few days...and a few thousand miles.”

He got close to madness that night.

The Taking Lake

I've been along this stretch of shore countless times. I've silently watched a thousand cloud veiled sunrises and sang songs to the moon as it disappeared behind the bluff, blood red. I've listened to the waves crash in one night only to be like glass the next morning. You never know what mood the Taking Lake will be in, morning to morning or night to night.

She's always in motion but you'd never know it half the time. Pay no attention to splashes and waves, the current just past your vision is what you need to be concerned about. It takes things, moves things, puts everything in it's final resting spot.

Each stone on this expanse looks just like those around it. Cold and oblivious to the others, it thinks it's on the way to someplace grand. When I pick up one, I can't help but wonder where it came from. I think about how big it used to be. How long till it's crushed to a grain of sand. I wonder when it finally lost it's edge. Side-arm skip it as hard as I can, offsetting it's arrival to wherever the hell it's supposed to be by another 100 years.

Stare into her for long enough and the Taking Lake will start staring back. She may taunt you to try to upset the natural order of things, to take a few steps in and reclaim that dream you threw away a few years ago. The one fossilizing at the bottom in the dark. She'll invite you to pitch a penny and make a wish only to spit out a green hunk of worthless, unrecognizable copper long after you're gone, the wish still thumb-printed into Abe's face under rust.  


Every bottle with a message that washes up has writing inside that you recognize as your own.You may get the idea to speed things along, seems the easiest way to go about it would be to get in and let go, just sorta go limp and hope you're lucky as that penny.  Fighting it only makes it worse...but isn't that what you do? Seems the best advice would be to let go and let the current take you where it will. You may end up someplace wonderful. Or maybe on the banks of Hell.

Legend has it that she never gives up her dead but for everything the Taking Lake steals, sometimes it gives something back. Each rusted over penny has wish on it, most of which end up as some kid's trophy from a day at the beach.

 

Pohjola's Daughter and The Drowning Man

I had no idea, but one of my favorite little cafes is actually date night central on Fridays. I didn't know this because I'm normally there in the middle of the day in the middle of the week, somewhere round about 3 when I almost always have the place to myself. Not only were there more people there, the menu was different so it was weird and kind of exciting all at the same time.

The hostess (another new wrinkle) seated me then shortly looped back around and sat down a glass of ice water, silverware, and told me the waiter would be right over. Wellll, not exactly right over. The place was packed and the staff was slammed, but I didn't have anywhere to be so...what the hell, I waited and took the time to do a little people watching.

It was a really interesting mix; mostly couples my age who probably had sitters at home with the kids, but there was one couple a few seats away that really caught my eye. They had to have been in their mid 80's, the guy had pants up to his armpits and the ol' gal's wig wasn't on quite straight. They were sharing an entree of pasta, duking it out with their forks over who got which meatball. He kept putting just the end of one strand of spaghetti in his mouth at a time, then he'd slurp it in real slow with his eyes wide open, staring right at her. The opposite end would bap him on the nose or the cheek each time and she thought it was the funniest thing. She played footsie with him under the table and kept motioning for him to lean in so she could wipe the sauce off his face. Then he'd go right back into his routine and make another face at her.

Now, I don't hear too good in situations like this. A big room full of conversation along with clanging dinnerware is normally a recipe for disaster for me on the hearing front...what I get is mostly static. But the couple at the next table over for some reason was fairly audible. I kinda half tuned in as the hostess brought over a basket of rolls. This guy was fighting way above his weight. He was trying his damndest to get anything out of his date; something more than just a yes or a no answer. It was the standard battery of questions: where'd you go to school, are your parents in town, what do you do, yadda yadda yadda. His date was dressed in an outfit that would've been perfectly acceptable at a wedding reception...if she was one of the bridesmaids. Really elaborate make-up, dangly earrings and some sort of mock tiara holding her hair up. Our man was in a shirt and slacks combo that made him look like a neck-down model in a five-and-dime weekly flyer.

She wasn't giving him much, didn't seem too keen on asking questions herself, so in an effort to keep the dance going he started in telling more in-depth things about himself. With each story, she rebuffed. He kept shifting gears, trying new approaches, and finally asked her if she liked old cars.

“Yeah, classic cars are cool.” she said flatly.

Paydirt. “I've got an old Ford truck I'm restoring in my garage.”

“Ew. I don't do trucks.”

I've never seen a guy inflate then deflate so quickly.

As the waiter shoe-horned his way between our tables to take my order, she excused herself to the restroom. After he left I looked over to their table and watched as our man ran his fingers through his thinning hair and exhaled heavily through pursed lips.

“I'm drowning over here.” he said, noticing that I was looking his way.

Did you guys just come from a wedding?

“No, this is an online thing, I met her here. I didn't know it was going to be formal. This is my best shirt.”

I asked him if he had ever heard the story of Väinämöinen and Pojhola's daughter. He said that he hadn't, accompanied with a rather confused look.

Väinämöinen is the hero in an epic Finnish fairy tale. He's got a big scraggly beard and a magic sled. He's looking for a wife when he gets into this adventure, searching for a stolen artifact that can create just about anything.

“Is this going to take a long time? She's gonna be back any minute.”

Are you kidding? You've seen the way she's dressed. Besides, from what I've heard she's probably talking to her roommate, telling her to send a text in a half hour to get her out of here.

“Go ahead.” he said.

So he's on this adventure when he runs into Pohjola, the Daughter of the North. She's hangin' out on a rainbow, weaving a gold cloth. Väinämöinen says “hey, you're pretty cute...why don't you jump in my sled and come along on this little adventure with me?” She says she'll only go along if he can do a couple things for her...like tie invisible knots in an egg and make a ship out of her little weaving tools. He thinks “well hell, I'm Väinämöinen, I'll give it a go.” Well, as it turns out he can't tie the knots and ends up with egg on his face, and he cuts himself on his axe trying make the ship. It doesn't take him long to figure out “damn, this is some bullshit...ta hell with this, I'm flying on down the road.”

“So?”

So...every fair maiden has a test for her suitor, and that's her right. Just because you're not pushin' her buttons doesn't mean you're a bad guy, you're just not her hero. And you, you just gotta keep on keepin' on till you find yours. Look over there at that old couple in the corner.


"The one with the guy cleaning bolognese out of the bottom row of his dentures in the water glass?”

Yeah, that one. The woman he's with doesn't care. Maybe she loves him because of it, not in spite of it. They fell for each other because of who they are...not who they aren't. And don't think you're the only one havin' it rough. Think of Pohjola's Daughter, sitting up there freezing her ass off on that rainbow. She's waiting, too.

“So now what?”

Now, you finish the date. Keep doin' what you're doin', be polite and mind your manners, do the awkward hug at the end...then forget about it.

“Aw man, here she comes.” he said, tensing up again.

I told him not to worry, that I'd cover for him.

I started in on the punchline from some old joke; “...and then he says to the guy, he says “rectum?? It nearly killed him!”

Laugh? Our man nearly fell out of the chair.